Tales of the X-men
by Silicon Avatar
Summary: An ongoing episodic series detailing the key offscreen events in the history of the X-men movie universe!
1. Chapter 1

**Tales of the X-Men  
** _(WARNING: Spoilers for all X-men films!)_ **  
**

Welcome X-men fans! This is a fanfic which will explore the history of the complex – and sometimes contradictory – X-men movie universe, as revealed from the first _X-men_ film to the most recent, _X-men: Apocalypse._ Although the final _Wolverine_ movie hasn't come out yet, and the ideas in here might contradict it, I couldn't wait any longer to start this story. It will also include a speculative imagining of what the future X-men storyline will be, so stick around and hope you enjoy!

 _Note: X-men is the sole intellectual property of Fox Studios and Marvel Comics, and all use of their characters and concepts herein is intended to be in compliance with fair use._

* * *

 **2023 – New Timeline (NT)  
** _West Chester, NY_

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Drowning." Try as he could, Logan could remember nothing more but the terrible pain from being impaled, and the awful choking blue darkness swallowing him up until there was nothing… nothing until he then awoke in this new, incomprehensible future. _And hopefully better._

Charles Xavier gave him a kindly smile. _The only one possible for Charles—then or now_ , Logan mused. "Shall I start from the beginning?"

The weight of lost years pressed in on him—Logan was in no mood for delays. "No – just give it all to me straight."

Charles' eyes narrowed. "Logan, you may not be able to tolerate—"

"—But I can. If you—or rather, my Charles—could plant all those memories of his at once in me for yourself, you can do it to me, too."

Charles gasped. "You could remember that?"

Logan nodded, grimacing. "After waking up, as I was walking here, I began to see images… memories, that could only be from my Charles. And then I remembered him—you—planting them, originally." He took a deep breath. "I suppose they were a backup for you to access, in case you couldn't connect with him directly."

Charles Xavier—the Xavier Logan had met in 1973 as a broken, lost soul but had recovered to now become outwardly indistinguishable from the Professor X who had sent his mind back in time—was silent for a while. "I feel compelled to apologize for my… what happened," he said solemnly, a look of what seemed to be genuine pain on his face. "The desperate situation you all faced may have called for extreme measures, but that does not change the fact that you were, in a way, manipulated. And violated. By my other self—by me." Charles paused, marshalling his thoughts. "He—your Charles—revealed more details of what led to your original future. Including how he treated your Jean Gray, and what resulted from it."

Logan held himself rigid, trying not to be agitated; it would have been impossible but for seeing Jean alive again. _Charles messed with Jean's mind, 'for her own good'. And it lead to disaster: his death, so many others… Jean's._ He shuddered. The fact that he had just seen Jean Gray, physically the same as he remembered her, of apparent sound mind, suggested that this Charles— _now just_ _Charles_ —had done things differently. _Hopefully…_

But further dwelling on what-used-to-be was pointless—perhaps even dangerous. Quickly Logan made a decision to move on: "Forget about it. It's all in the past."

Charles still looked discomfited; Logan realized he owed him more of an explanation. "You did what you had to do, for all our sakes. Everyone… everyone understood what they would be sacrificing if we succeeded with Raven. All that matters is going forward." _That's it. From now on, I have to, not forget, but put aside, everything that happened—the good and the bad. Because I have to live on from the now._ Logan hoped he could do it. _It seemed so easy to agree to back then, but now that it was finally time to live in a new future…_

Charles did not react, then finally nodded. "You're right, of course. Thank you, for your wisdom, and forgiveness."

His words were both touching and surprising; Logan did a double-take. He said warmly: "Sorry. It's just I'm not used to hearing those words about me."

"For the past fifty years, I've done everything in my power to make sure we would not repeat the mistakes of your original world's past." Charles offered a strained smile. "I hope upon examination we've passed that test."

"Looks like things turned out pretty good." He looked around quickly. "Heck of a lot better than the world before I went back, that's for sure."

Charles' smile faded. "Perhaps." Logan felt a twitch in his stomach, but otherwise did not react. "You'll… see." He paused, as if to say more, but did not. Instead he merely said: "Are you ready?"

"Yep. Do it."

Charles gestured for Logan to sit down. He did so. The Professor then floated up next to him. "Close your eyes." Logan complied. "Take a deep breath." He breathed in, one long inhalation. "Ready yourself…"

Logan felt Charles' fingers brush against his temples. Then he heard him in his head: _Remember…_

He began to. And screamed…

* * *

 **2023 – Original Timeline (OT)  
** _Somewhere in the Tien Shan Mountains – Xinjiang, China_

Magneto stopped talking. "Anything else I need to know?" Logan asked laconically.

"No. You have all that you need," Magneto replied, equally succinct.

"Ok." Logan turned to Charles. "Your turn; tell me everything I need to convince you to go along."

"There's a lot more you need than that—much more than Eric shared." He reached out with his hand. "May I?"

Logan frowned but nodded. Crouching down beside him, Logan cocked his head towards Charles and said, "Let me have it. Just make sure you leave at least a bit of me behind."

Despite himself Charles chuckled. "It won't be that bad. Just… relax." Logan closed his eyes; Charles placed his fingers across his temple. "Remember," he said aloud and mentally.

Logan started; his arms tightly grasped Charles' hoverchair and trembled. Eric raised a hand, but Charles shook his head; Eric withdrew. Some minutes later, he was done.

Slowly Logan got to his feet. Opening his eyes, he grunted and rubbed the sides of his head. "What'd you do, put every day of the last fifty years in my head?"

"Less… and more." Logan gave him an irritated look. "You have a dozen intimate memories of mine that no one else knows, good and bad. I have also implanted as much historical and technical information that could be relevant to your mission and other related objectives. You need only think of a specific related question, and any related memories I have given you will be evoked."

"What about history—their future? How much info about our past did you give me? And how much should I tell him—you?"

Without hesitation Professor X told Logan what he had for so long been practicing to say: "Once I agree to hear you out, first share your own memories of how things came to be. If you must say more, you can access my views. Do anything you can to gain my trust." Charles suddenly reached out to grab Logan's arm. "Above all, it is _imperative_ that you get me to stop using Henk's telepathic suppression drugs, as soon as possible, so I can use my powers to help stop Raven."

In his haste Charles realized he had misspoke: "Correction. Even above getting me to regain my powers, your _first_ priority is stop Raven from killing Trask in Paris. If I do not agree immediately to stop taking the drugs, do not risk alienating me by continuing to insist; work with me as I am to stop Raven. I suspect you will need to persuade myself to stop using the drugs and reembrace my abilities, however."

Logan looked uncomfortable. "What if I get you to regain your powers, yet you still won't help?"

Charles gave Logan a reassuring smile; he also implicitly reassured Logan mentally. "In that scenario, then you must convince me to access your mind directly. Are you okay with that?" Charles braced himself to convince Logan otherwise if he refused—

—Fortunately he did not. "No problem."

"What will happen is—" Charles stopped and shook his head. "It will take too long to explain; trust me, when that situation happens, you will know. I promise."

"Fair enough. Anything else?"

"No. Do you have any more questions?" Logan shook his head. "Then you're ready. Good luck, Logan, I know you will succeed."

"Thanks."

"Do whatever you must, Wolverine," Magneto interjected. "You must not fail."

Logan gave Magneto a dirty look. "I won't." Then without another word he turned around and walked towards the table, where Shadowcat was beginning to brief Logan for the mental voyage.

Eric Lensher—Magneto—both his closest friend and most resolute enemy for the past sixty years, came up to his side. "You really think this will work?"

"I have faith in him," Charles replied.

"It's not him I'm worried about, it's us. We were young, we didn't know any better."

"We will now."

Logan screamed. Eric continued conversationally: "And what about—"

 _Silence!_ Charles hissed telepathically.

He could feel Eric briefly bristle mentally at the intrusion. _Fine. And what about Mystique? Will you, Beast and Wolverine be able to convince her?_

 _I'm sure of it, Charles replied telepathically._

 _She may have to be killed, Eric thought reproachfully._

 _Absolutely not! That is not an option, it will not happen!_

 _Eric was stern in his reply: I hope you didn't 'convince' Logan that killing her isn't an option. Even Mystique's life is not worth a repeat of this future._

 _Knowing myself, even given the stakes, I would not let that happen to her._

 _Unfortunately, knowing myself, I might insist, Magento thought mournfully._

 _Charles was alarmed by this revelation, but now that Kitty had begun they dared not awaken Logan to warn him of this. Unable to awake Logan, he could only reassure his old friend: I have always had faith in you, Eric, that you would come to see things the way I do. It may have taken longer than expected, but I was right that one day, you would._

 _Eric chuckled mentally. Peaceful coexistence, right? Maybe. I do finally agree with you that we should never have started a fight we could not win. Despite all of our powers, all of us are not as strong as all of them._

 _Eric_ —

— _No Charles, I'm not mocking you; I truly agree with you. You said it perfectly: be the better men. Eric sighed mentally. Regrettably, only with the benefit of hindsight is it now clear what I did was completely wrong back then: I had taken my vengeance with Shaw, but we could have secured a peaceful future for all mutants right there in Cuba. Instead, in my fear of suffering a repeat of a fate in the camps, I lashed out and made our enemy irreconcilable, thus condemning us all to the fate I feared most._

 _Charles had felt these sentiments from Eric before, but never so clearly; his heart warmed to him. Logan will succeed, Eric, and all this will be no more. Things will be very different, for the better._

 _Eric still doubted. If Wolverine succeeds, the threat from the Sentinels may be aborted, but what of others? By changing the future, who is to say we might not create new and even greater dangers?_

 _You're absolutely right. But if we're lucky, more things will change than that. Charles wanted to end things on that note, but Eric knew him too well—he saw it then._

 _Jean Gray! The memories you implanted in Logan's mind, you also included what happened with Jean; you're going to try to convince yourself to do things differently with her!_

 _Unwilling to conceal the truth any more, Charles mentally nodded._

 _Eric's jubilant feelings soon decayed into concern. But, is it wise to give our past selves more information about the future beyond what they strictly need? Do we not incur the risk of them making drastic changes to the future as a result?_

 _Yes, Eric, and that's the whole idea—to change the future by changing the past! This is not Star Trek, there is no Prime Directive for mutants, and I'm not Captain Kirk or Picard—with this singular opportunity, we can secure our future from not only the Sentinels, but all those other potential threats you're worried about._

 _Suddenly Eric understood completely. I see now, Charles, you don't even have to tell me: you have told yourself not to shackle Jean's mind as you did previously, not to be afraid of her powers. And assuming she survives, a sane Jean Gray will be powerful enough to protect all mutants from any threat, human or otherwise!_

 _Charles' mind sighed. As we come to the end, one way or the other, just as you finally acknowledged I was right, I must admit that you, too, were right. I was just like Jean's parents, my fear of Jean's powers outweighing the desire to help her. Instead of coming to terms with her as she is, I forced her into something I felt safe with. My fear created the very danger I feared most, and the loss of so many lives. With this second chance, I hope that I can convince myself to make amends for how I treated Raven, and how I will treat Jean. But even if I do, there are no guarantees—ultimately it will be up to Jean herself to decide her fate._

 _But now at least she will make be able to make that decision of her own free will. If Jean masters herself, she will ensure that mutants and humans will be able to live in peace, maybe even forever._

 _Indeed._

 _Eric grimaced at the grim consequences of the alternative: And if she doesn't, you and everyone else will be able to do what is necessary, with a clean conscience._

 _A long silence, and then:_

… _Indeed._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **July 5, 1976 – OT  
** _West Chester, NY_

It was nearly ten in the morning when Henk McCoy entered the dining room. Charles was sitting at the table, a half-eaten sandwich on the plate and an open beer-bottle in his right hand. He was humming to himself—but despite his enhanced hearing, Henk could not make out the tune.

"Morning, Henk," Charles said with only a hint of slurring. "Lovely fireworks yesterday, don't you think? Happy 200th birthday to your—well, our—country!"

"Good morning Professor," Henk replied, quietly but determinedly.

Charles laughed harshly. "Sorry, you have me mistaken for someone else. Let's try that again: Morning Henk."

With increased strength in his voice, Henk said: "I've come to say good-bye."

"What?"

"Good bye, Charles. I'm leaving."

The typical dullness in Charles' drunken expression had vanished; he stared intently at Henk. _As if to read my mind…_ "Was it something I said?" he asked warily.

Henk shook his head. "No. You haven't said or done anything." _Not for the last ten years; that's why._ "I'm going back to Chicago, back to my parents, to look for a postdoc position. I hope—" Now his voice caught in his throat. Clearing it, he continued: "—I wish you well, Charles."

It was done—no turning back. _All those years of waiting, hoping, that things could change—no more._ As the months became weeks became days, the fear and anxiety in him had risen to intolerable levels; it took all of his willpower (and additional shots) to contain his emotions enough to prevent his mutation from bursting out of him, as could happen under stressful conditions. But after a fitful restless sleep filled with terrible dreams of the short but intense times where he and Charles—and _her_ —had worked and fought together, he had woken up this morning oddly calm. _Because far worse than dreams of a troubled past is the blank nothingness of a purposeless future._ A future that he was guilty of abetting all this time.

 _No more,_ he thought firmly. _If we can't make a better future together, it's time to do it separately._ Unconsciously Henk stood straighter. For the first time…ever? Henk felt like a real man, fully in control of his life and self. _Your move Charles._

Normally Charles was lethargic; he seemed agitated, making small fitful movements in his chair. A clear look of confusion was on his face. Constantly his eyes flicked towards Henk, then turned away as Henk stared back. He started mumbling—this time Henk could clearly hear him: _Wait, wait…_

Henk remained patient. Finally Charles rose, unsteady, bracing himself against the chair. He began nodding. "Alright chap, on you go," he said in a flat tone of voice. Holding out his hand, he said: "Safe travels." No anger or surprise in his voice, which raised Henk's suspicions. _This is exactly how he normally sounds later in the day—disinterested and dull. But surely he must be feeling more?_

Now Henk began to feel some doubt. Willing himself, he asked: "Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"Of course, I can take care of myself. Now please, go." Abruptly he sat down and resumed eating his sandwich, this time with just a hint of agitation.

"Charles, what about—"

"—What about what?"

Henk bit his lip in trepidation. "Your serum."

Charles stopped eating, frozen. "Well… I suppose I'm sh— out of luck, aren't I?"

Reverting to past learned behavioral responses, Henk said rapidly and deferentially: "I've made you several months' supply, that should be enough—"

"Can I make it on my own?"

Henk hesitated. "I… uh… well, it's a complicated formula—" He stopped as Charles was staring at him with a severe look. "Yes. The formula's in my lab notebooks, all the materials are in the lab. If you're up to it, you can." A sudden uncontrolled look of happiness flashed across Charles' face. Suddenly Henk's embarrassment turned to fury. "It's all in your hands, Charles." _Don't waste anymore time! Please!_

Henk made those thoughts as strongly as he could. Before taking the serum, Charles would have easily picked up his thoughts. Instead, there was just a stupidly content look on his face. "Yes, good," he babbled.

Fury turned to disgust—and despair. Tears started welling up in Henk's eyes, which he could not contain. Choking, Henk said: "I'll see myself out." Without looking back, he left the dining room. His four heavily packed suitcases, weighing over a hundred pounds, were by the door. Without any difficulty he scooped them up, opened the door, and exited.

Forty minutes later his taxi arrived to take him to Albany, where he would fly home and leave… all that behind. As the taxi exited the front gates Henk turned back to see if Charles had seen him off.

He did not. Turning around, Henk was resolute again. _He made his choice, I've made mine._ With great difficulty, Henk began mentally preparing himself to return to the outside world once and for all. _And to permanently hide who I really am._

As the plane lifted off and the ground disappeared below them, Henk looked out the window, unable to forget the last time he had been flying. Clear as day, he remembered: Charles, Eric, and the others were there, all garbed in his custom-made flight suits, nervous but eager for the fight to come.

 _And her of course… Raven. 'Mutant and proud', she chided him that day before leaving. Didn't work out quite like you thought, did it_ Mystique _?_ The momentary schadenfreude he felt over what happened to Eric quickly disappeared. _Just as she did. I wonder what she's doing now…_

* * *

 **April 15, 1973 – NT  
** _Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Bethesda, MD_

There was a knock at the door. "Enter," Charles said.

Henk McCoy came inside and closed the door behind him. "Feeling better, Professor?"

"Much." Grimacing, Charles slowly raised himself in the hospital bed as much as he could. His left leg, still wrapped in a cast after being broken from falling concrete, remained stationary.

"How much longer?" _Is it safe to talk?_

"They told me two to three more weeks." _Yes, the government agents visiting the hospital are planning to install surveillance equipment in spaces adjacent to this room, but they haven't yet._

"Good to know," Henk said aloud. The smile on Henk's face suddenly faded.

Charles hated reading the minds of people who came to bring him bad news, so he deliberately kept from doing so. "What is it?"

Taking a deep breath, Henk said: "It's Logan." Charles' breathing froze. "DC police just this morning filed a death report for him; they found him yesterday at the bottom of the Potomac. I'm trying to get access to his body, but…"

Gasping for air, Charles laid back and closed his eyes tightly. Henk recoiled as a sudden wave of emotional anguish washed over him. _Oh Eric, once again you've killed a fellow mutant; you can't blame humans this time. And Logan… I'm so sorry._ Charles' heart was filled with sympathy for the irascible man who had changed literally everything, whose efforts had managed to snap Charles out of his decade-long bout of drug-addled depression and despair. _If only I could—GAAH!_

"Charles, what's wrong?"

Wincing, Charles stifled a scream as he grabbed his head. From out of nowhere a painful surge flooded into his mind. Normally Charles had near-perfect awareness of his mental state, so this sudden and unexplained mental experience was strange and frightening. The pain was so intense Charles felt like he was going to die, but abruptly the pain disappeared, replaced by—

—memories. _Slowly Charles opened his eyes. Actually, he realized his physical eyes did not open, but he could now see._

 _He was no longer in the hospital—instead he was back at the mansion in West Chester. The dreamy, slightly indistinct landscape was bright and sunny and warm. He was in his wheelchair, in the garden terrace at the rear. There was another, also in a wheelchair. His future self, wearing a suit, considerably older and bald yet in good cheer. As Charles reached out to him, he was frozen—the memory was speaking to him!_

" _Greetings Charles. Here I will be Professor X. If you are perceiving this, it is because two things have occurred: you were successful in stopping Raven from killing Trask; and you believe Logan is dead or gone. First, fear not—Logan's healing mutation is far more powerful than you may realize. It is extremely unlikely that anything in your time could have killed him. For now, do not pursue contact with him. The Logan you knew is not the Logan who dwells in that body—he is a stranger to you, and probably displeased at what he went through. Let him be; one day your paths will meet again, and I will let you know what should be done. I await your question now." Professor X stopped moving—he was mentally free again._

 _Charles realized now what had happened: somehow during his connection with Logan, his future self transferred his memories to Charles' subconscious, to be awakened when he had the right thoughts. We cannot have a conversation anymore, so this can only be a one-way transfer of information. What do I need to know?_

 _He remembered the actual conversation he had with his future self: despite the terrible state of affairs that befell them, above all Professor X still had hope in humanity—both mutant and nonmutant. Charles remembered the visions of Professor X: an incredibly optimistic one where mutant children were nurtured under his protection. But how did it all go so terribly wrong? What prompted humans to seek out the destruction of all mutants? Was it a reaction against Sebastian Shaw? Did their Magneto do something similar to what Eric just did recently? Or was it something else?_

 _Now that he thought about it, future Logan did not provide many specific details about the future except what had directly led to the creation of the future Sentinels. They did not become a mortal threat until the very end. Something must have happened in the next fifty years. But what? Charles asked himself: now that we saved Trask, how do we avoid a repeat of your future? And what must I do to bring about peaceful coexistence between humans and mutants?_

 _Professor X unfroze—once again Charles was a captive audience. "You want to know what you should do to avoid a repeat of our future. I know you still have the same goal as I: a world where mutants and nonmutants live in peace with each other, each community benefitting from the gifts of the other. But there will still be many forces in your world, on both sides, who do not share that vision, and will seek to destroy it. In order to achieve our goal, you must do two things: first, you must recreate the school for fellow mutants we had originally planned after Cuba, in order to nurture the mutant community and direct it in a positive direction. Second, you must be vigilant in resisting those who seek the destruction of the other. Not just humans seeking to destroy mutants, but mutants seeking to destroy humans. I had come so close to achieving these goals, but it was my own blindness and hubris that destroyed me, destroyed the X-men, and provoked the humans to resurrect the Sentinels and finally wipe us out."_

" _I will now unveil my past, my understanding of why it happened, and my suggestions on how to avoid it. But be careful with this information, Charles—it is not a guarantee that things will reoccur in the same way. Above all else, do not live in fear that your fate is irrevocably set, for it is not. You may make the same decisions I did, or completely different ones—either is acceptable, as long as you are willing to change as needed. Before I continue, do I have your word of honor, Charles Xavier, that you will strive to do the right thing, regardless of what I tell you about what happened?"_

 _I shall, Charles thought._

" _Very good. Behold…"_

—Charles woke to a splitting headache. Opening his eyes everything was a blur. His mind was still spinning in response to what his future self had told him, but things slowly came into focus. With a start, Charles realized Henk was no longer the only one in the room with him.

"I'm sorry, who are—"

"My name is Steve." Steve was a tall, well-built man with shortly cropped blonde hair and brown eyes. He was dressed in casual clothes, but even without telepathy Charles could see that Steve was probably a man more accustomed to wearing battle dress than tie-dies and jeans. "I have a message for you."

"Alright, let me have it."

Steve did not say anything in response, merely smiling and tapping his temple. Charles frowned and looked at Henk. _What's going on?_

 _You've been out for almost an hour. I was debating whether to call for medical assistance, but decided to wait until your symptoms got worse. About ten minutes ago 'Steve' came in. He showed me a badge—I think he's FBI or maybe Secret Service. Wanted to talk to you. Thought it was better not to make a scene._

 _Good thinking Henk. I'll take it from here; stay outside and make sure no one comes in. Right Steve?_

Steve started, then stared wide-eyed at Charles. He nodded curtly. So did Charles, and so did Henk. He went outside.

Sighing, Charles laid back in the bed, although he kept his eyes opened and fixed on his visitor. _What is your message Steve? Or shall I say… Scott Steinberg, former Green Beret?_

Steinberg quickly took a step back. Before he opened his mouth, Xavier put a finger to his lips. _I'm sorry, I can't help but be curious. Now I'm sure this is very unusual and frightening. Please be calm. When you wish to reply, try to only think what you want to convey, do not speak or even mouth along, it makes it more difficult for me and you. Go ahead, give it a try._

… _Alright, can you, uh, hear me?_

 _No, but yes. Never mind. What is your message?_

 _My superior wishes to have a conversation with you. A private one. He can't be here in person, or have anyone else know. But he must speak to you._

 _Someone in the Department of Defense?_

 _No. Your blue-skinned lady friend saved his ass last week. Comprende?_

 _Charles kept his emotions firmly in check; linked as they were Steinberg could conceivably read his thoughts if he were not careful. Very well. Where is he? There are limits to how far I can reach, so I hope not too far._

 _Nearby. He's four miles south of here—_

— _that's not helpful, I can't 'see' with my mind, I can only see what other minds are seeing. Can you describe his surroundings?_

 _Actually I can. Steinberg took out a piece of paper and held it up to Charles. On a plane, looking out onto a landing strip. White cabin with brown carpeting and grey seats. Just Pat with me._

 _He's at an airport. Let me find him. Without Cerebro Charles was limited in discerning how fast he could distinguish minds, but having just recently touched his mind, it would be much easier to discern him once he narrowed down the field. A vast horde of shapeless minds surrounded Charles, with no arrangement in time or space except what he could impose. By focusing in on individuals and seeing what they could see, slowly he was able to build a mental picture of who was where. Slowly he found his way towards minds at Dulles Airport; then a worker on the tarmac looking at a Boeing 707 that could only be Air Force One. Quickly he found a mind looking out onto the tarmac; a woman, and right next to her was the one. Charles focused._

 _Good morning, Mister President. To what do I owe the pleasure?_

 _Richard Nixon cringed at the sudden sensation. Try to relax, be still and clear your mind, it makes things easier and less disruptive. Better?_

 _Yeah. Okay. Uh, yeah… Xavier, right? Listen to me; I wanna make a deal…_

* * *

 **May 16, 1955 - OT  
** _Vienna, Austria_

Even in this forlorn district of Vienna, spirits were still high as residents continued to celebrate yesterday's announcement of the Independence Treaty. Excitedly residents chatted about the future over draughts of beer and plates of sausages.

Through the crowds, a single tall solitary figure passed. A warm smile flashed, but the eyes were cool, and his thoughts even colder: _You don't deserve to be so happy,_ Eric Lehnsherr thought sourly. _You don't deserve to be happy ever again._

It took all of his willpower not to hurl chunks of metal through them. Again he focused on the task at hand. _Tonight the revenge begins…_

It was now full night as he reached the address. A dim light shone through the curtains inside—she was home. Eric mulled around, waiting till there was no one directly in sight. Quickly he raced to the door. Reaching out, he pulled and pushed at the metal lock of the door—and the heavy deadbolt inside— _now!_ Turning the knob, he was inside.

It was a small home, nothing memorable. He heard the thud of footsteps. "Who's there?" a woman called out in harsh German. Then he saw her enter the lobby, a short thin woman with graying hair: Gertrud Krämer, Klaus Schmidt's secretary and right-hand woman in the camps.

Instantly she brandished a pistol; Eric easily flicked it away. Krämer's eyes widened; even if she didn't recognize who he was, she would certainly remember who could do what he just did. She turned to flee; Eric reached out and slammed the door shut. Whirling around, cornered, she hissed: "I don't know where he is!"

Eric smiled grimly. _No one ever said Nazis were dumb._ "I don't believe you." A knife whirred through the air and rested menacingly before her face. "Tell me what I want to know, and I promise to make it quick. Tell me where the Doctor is, and I might let you live."

Shaking with fear, Krämer babbled: "Oskar Hahmund, the surgeon, he was the last one I saw. Strasbourg. He's there, I swear!"

Eric froze. _Schmidt's surgeon, who cut m open… placed metal objects inside me, as incentive to become more precise in using my power._ His hands twitched at the memory of the unspeakable pain that occurred when he tried to move metal objects at Schmidt's command, and accidentally moved metal inside his body as well.

Hahmund would pay _dearly_ for his crimes. "Anyone else?" he asked harshly. Krämer shook her head.

Suddenly Eric was furious. "You're lying!" Involuntarily the knife slashed her cheek. Howling, she cursed: "You filthy Jewish freak! You should have died with the rest of the vermin we incinerated!"

Any remaining doubts Eric had were dispelled. Two lengths of heavy packing rope, tipped with heavy bronze ends, flew out of his pockets. One wrapped themselves around her body so she couldn't move at all; another twisted and turned into a noose, which slipped over her neck. He tightened it enough to choke her, but not to cut off all breathing. Coming up to her, he said quietly: "Thanks to my gift—to the training of the good Doctor—your death will be found to be a suicide without foul play. No one will know I'm hunting your kind down. Vengeance for all the lives you destroyed. For what you did to me."

Turning red, Krämer spat at his face, her spittle hitting him in the nose. Recoiling in disgust, he stepped back and clenched his right hand into a tight fist. The noose tightened; Krämer's eyes bulged out, her mouth cracking open but only a sputtering gurgle came out. Quickly he raised his fist: the metal-weighted end of the noose flew upwards, pulling her up abruptly. There was a sharp crack. Krämer's body jerked to and fro for a bit, then was still.

Eric had not breathed during it all. He merely stared upwards at Krämer's body, her feet dangling five feet above him. He lifted his left hand, and the rope wrapped around her body slipped away. Raising both hands, her corpse slowly floated upwards. The free end of the noose tied itself around the second floor stairwell, and with a loud thud her body fell. She was now dangling from the second floor railing at the stairwell – to all the world it would look like she hanged herself.

For the next few hours Eric quickly searched the house for more information; there was nothing useful except a lot of gold bullion, and a small stack of letters, some of them with addresses from outside Austria. Suddenly fearful, Eric turned off the lights and peered out the windows. _Clear!_ He opened the door and ran out.

* * *

That next evening, Eric sat alone in the bar of the Hotel Imperial, nursing his half-finished _Obstler_ , unable to shake the heavy lethargy he found himself in since… what happened.

 _Much different than this morning._ Despite trying to remain calm, by the time Eric returned to his hotel room he was literally shaking, drenched in sweat; he vomited his last meal and had collapsed on the bed. What little sleep he got was broken by constant dreams of corpses screaming his name… or Schmidt's name. _He was killing… he was being killed… I don't know where my body ends and the dead ones begin…_

…When Eric woke up he was certain he would have been found, that the _Polizei_ would have arrested him and taken him away—but nothing. _He got away with it._ And he felt relief, and shame… and then nothing at all. _Is it going to be that easy?_ At that moment Eric became afraid—not of others, but of himself.

 _Maybe I should emigrate to Israel—join the IDF, use my powers to defend her._ Like many he couldn't help but fear Egypt's Nasser and his plans. _There are so few of us left, and now we have a land of our own… but so small, so surrounded by those who hate us!_ And then he recoiled at the thought—a reflexive rejection at the idea. _I am not a weapon!_ _But then, what am I?_

Eric did not know what he was—a modern day Samson? Was that the purpose God (if he existed) gave him these incredible powers? To strike down his people's enemies—and die doing so? He certainly wanted to that, but who was the real enemy? Was it just Schmidt? Or was it all Germans? Or all _goyim?_ Or even God himself?

All Eric could see was a bleak endless future: himself as an old man, killing Nazis with his powers, with no one or nothing to keep company with, except the corpses of his enemies.

Eric drank.

* * *

"No Helen, darling, that's okay, I'll catch up to you later!" Anya Maximoff took off her stewardess hat and let her long sandy hair come tumbling out. _Just the beginning—gotta get out of the rest of these threads stat!_

Anya ordered a kangaroo cocktail and drank it straight up. Feeling the rush, she got another one and scanned the lounge for targets and immediately found one: a very tall flutter bum all by his lonesome. His threads were a bit flake, not your typical high-rollin' Euro, but this cat seemed to have something hep hiding beneath. Slowly but confidently she sashayed up to him. When she got his attention, she said: " _Guten Abend, mein Herr_!"

Her beautiful stranger had a startled look on him. With a small smile he replied in accented English: "Good evening, Miss."

 _Ooh a mystery man!_ "Oh! You speak English?"

"I learned some in your country, was there ten year ago."

His German accent was native, just like her mom. _Just like her—Holey moley!_ Trying not to look surprised (or ashamed), she asked: "Please forgive me, you're not just German, are you?"

His smile became broader. "No, I am Jewish too," he replied in Yiddish, the accent now unmistakable.

Anya didn't know where to begin. Trying to lighten the mood, she sat next to him and held out her hand: "Anya Maximoff." He took it and shook. Gesturing at her powder blue uniform, she said: "As you can see, I am a stewardess for Pan American Airways."

Laughing, he replied: "I never would have guessed. Eric Lehnsherr. I'm…" He paused, a frown on his face. Taking a sip of his drink, he said: "I'm a visitor, on business."

 _That—doesn't make sense? Or maybe it's the booze._ "Is business going good?"

"I just started. Promising beginning. Not sure of the future." He smiled, but now it seemed forced. Shaking his head, his voice was suddenly cheery: "So tell me about yourself, Anya."

Anya almost forgot why she was here. Straightening up, she said: "If you're curious, my mother is Ashkenazim, father Bulgarian." Noting his surprise, she said, "It's different in America. Not so much… a problem, like recently." _If anyone would know, he probably does._ "I'm from Baltimore. Got a gift with languages. Always wanted to travel, see the world, so I decided to become a stewardess. My parents disapproved, but hey, they don't own me!"

"Well, welcome to the world!" He held out his glass in a toast; clinking it with her glass. A reflective look came across his face. "Maybe I should have just stayed in America. Easier to move on there. To forget."

Anya carefully studied him: Eric looked to be in his mid to late twenties. _Ten years ago…_ It hit her with the weight of a thunderbolt. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "you were a refugee?"

He nodded. "And… a survivor."

Anya had never been more ashamed. Stifling tears, she hurriedly got up and said, "I'm so sorry, I have been so offensive and ignorant, please forgive me—"

Eric got up just as fast; for a second Anya thought she was seeing things— _did that spoon fall_ up _instead of down?_ As she hesitated, he grabbed her arm. "No, don't apologize. It's nothing—no, it's not nothing, but it's over, in the past." He let go. Anya stared into his eyes. "I was feeling down, but I feel much better now, now that you're here." He gestured to the chair; Anya sat. "We all need to laugh and love, even more now. Otherwise, they win." Eric paused, his mouth moving silently, as if surprised by the words he said.

For her sake, Anya knew how to respond to that. Finishing her drink, she got up and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. "Yes." Offering her hand, Eric took it and rose. To both their surprise, they kept their decorum as they walked through the hotel until the door to Eric's room closed behind them—but not a second longer.

* * *

Yawning, Anya stretched and rose up in the bed, feeling... _super._ Slipping a robe over her nude form, she went over to her purse and pulled out a Camel's from her purse. Lighting it, she started taking drags as she went to the window and looked out onto the darkened streets of downtown Vienna. _Not nearly as many lights as back in New York._ Of course she knew why: the last time she was in Vienna was four months ago, and there was still signs of war damage. She turned around and looked at the bed: in the dim nightlight Eric was barely visible, sound asleep. _Very interesting indeed. I definitely will remember you, Eric darling._ Smiling, she put out the cigarette and went to the bathroom.

As she washed up, the room seemed to vibrate. _Earthquake?_ No, it was very faint, but it didn't stop. Frowning, she went back to the room. Immediately it her: Eric was moaning in his sleep, tossing and turning. All around her, things seemed to be… vibrating? Trays, the metal frame around the mirror; even pens, coins, and keys. _Helen gave me some acid a while ago, but this is weirder._ Puzzled, she came up to Eric and nudged him. "Eric?—"

—with a shout Eric leaped out of the bed. All around Anya small metal objects flew past her, some hitting her in the back, others ripping her robe as they whizzed by. Then it all stopped, and Eric was standing naked, panting. She fumbled for the lights; when they turned on Anya screamed. And then laughed, because what she saw was so strange she could do nothing else.

Eric was panting, drenched in sweat—and covered all over his body with metal objects. Coins, utensils, coat hangers, a belt buckle. Most absurd of all was a coffee pot now attached to his… private regions.

Anya could only stare in utter confusion. As Eric calmed down, he looked at himself, then at Anya. He did not look surprised or confused. Abruptly all the metal objects attached to him fell to the floor with a clang, causing Anya to yelp. He then picked up and put on a robe, and sat on the bed. "There's a rational explanation for all this." He patted the bed, gesturing for her to sit beside him.

As if she were made of metal and he was a magnet, Anya felt drawn to him. She sat down and opened her mouth, but could not form the words. Chuckling softly, Eric said: "I have the ability to control metal." He held out his hand; slowly a pen rose up from the ground and came into his palm. Taking it, he offered it to her. Immediately Anya leaped away. Fighting back hysteria, she babbled: "How? Why?"

He shook his head. "I have no idea where it came from. When I was thirteen, it… happened."

"What happened? Where?"

Eric proffered his left arm: a series of numbers. To her credit, Anya did not react. "They were taking my parents away, I tried to stop them. The gate closed behind them, and I… wrecked it. That was the first time."

He fell silent. Anya came up and sat next to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Go on."

He took her hand. In a flat tone, he said: "One of the Nazi scientists—his name is Schmidt—noticed. He tried to make me use my powers; I couldn't. Then they brought my mother in, and he said he would shoot her if I didn't move a coin. I couldn't; he shot her."

Instinctively Anya reached out and hugged him tightly. Eric took a deep breath, then slowly pushed her away. "After that, I was enraged; my power returned, and I destroyed the lab, killed the guards… but he survived. He began experimenting on me, torturing me to make me use my abilities. People were hurt – his doctors, guards, other camp prisoners… but never him. I don't understand why." He paused. "I tried, so hard, I tried to kill him, but I never could, it's as if a shield covered him."

He fell silent; Anya took both his hands. "Not long after the Soviets were coming, we were taken west. Just as the Americans were coming, he disappeared. The American army took us to America, took care of us. But when I became an adult, I left. I returned to Germany."

"Why?"

Eric pulled away. Without looking at her, he said: "Revenge. I searched everywhere, but Schmidt – the man who did this to me – had disappeared, he wasn't arrested or tried. I vowed to hunt him down and kill him myself." He went to the window.

Anya got up and stood behind him. "Go on."

Eric's head dropped. "I am here in Vienna because I found the first of Schmidt's associates here. Last night, I confronted her. I… killed her." He turned around and faced her, his face calm but resolute.

Anya gasped and stepped back. "You… killed… someone?"

"Yes. And I intend to keep searching for Schmidt. And kill him when I find him. Unless you wish to turn me in."

Anya stared at him. He continued: "I'm so glad I met you, Anya Maximoff. My life has been nothing but pain and loss. I never thought I could care for someone, but I care for you. And I show you how much I care for you: I put my life in your hands."

"Eric…"

"I'm not a good man." He held up his hand as Anya began to protest. "Not yet. I have to do what I must. After that, after I have my justice, my revenge, only then can I be good again. You are a good woman, Anya. One day, when I have done what I must, maybe we can be together. If you don't want me, I understand. And if you think I'm wrong, then call the police."

Anya was silent; now she turned away. Behind her she could hear Eric sit down. She turned back to face him. "Do your magic again."

With a small smile, he began to juggle four coins in midair over his outstretched palm.

"You could do so much with your… gift. Why use it to kill?"

He frowned. "My gift is a product of suffering and death. It's not a pure gift, it's tainted with blood. My blood, my parents' blood, our people's blood. When the wicked are punished by it, then it will be pure." Eric laughed softly. "Maybe God will take it away then. That's fine. But I only ask God that I have the chance." He looked at her. "I only ask you."

Anya came over and sat next to him. "Go get him." Now Eric was surprised—she placed a hand on his lips. "My parents didn't tell me the truth about what was happening over here until I was seventeen— _seventeen!_ They wanted to 'protect' me. Ha! You are the most amazing man I have ever met. And I'm not even talking about your freaky magnetic powers! You're right: you're God's instrument, even though I don't believe in God, I do now! When you do what you need to do, you can come back to me, if you want. If not, that's okay. And if you still need to fight for our people, fight for what's right, that's okay too."

She got up; so did he. "Are you sure?" Eric asked.

"Of course! Doesn't it say in the Torah, 'I pursued my enemies and destroyed them; and did not turn back until they were destroyed'?"

Eric's eyes widened. "It does indeed. You amaze me Anya; never imagined a stewardess would be so knowledgeable in the Law."

Anya grinned mischievously and opened her robe, allowing it to fall to the ground. "I'm knowledgeable in many things." She pushed Eric's robe open and forced it to fall as well. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him to her. "This daughter of Jerusalem is ready to stir up love now."

They kissed and fell upon the bed.

* * *

To no surprise Anya awoke to find Eric's room empty, but for a handwritten letter next to a small but very heavy bag:

 _Thank you Anya, for everything. In case you need support, you can draw on this. With love, E.L._

In the bag was two bars of pure gold – at least many tens of thousands of dollars worth! _He thinks I'm a hooker!_ Anya thought with indignation. Then she realized it was far from that. _I'm a partner in crime now._

Thinking about it that way made it much better.


End file.
